


Paper Planes

by B0WSandARR0WS



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Like seriously slow, M/M, Oh God did I just wrte 200 words about paper planes?, Pre-Avengers Movie, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:25:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B0WSandARR0WS/pseuds/B0WSandARR0WS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two strangers meet on a train, entirely unaware of the others' past. They becomes aquiantances, then friends, then something more.<br/>And then they find each other at SHIELD.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*I am terrible at summaries, BTW</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE-- Thursday

Clint stares at the crowded train hopelessly, groceries in hand. The only seat left is next to a man in a well-fitting black suit and tie, who is ramrod straight in his chair and offers Clint a stormy glare as he collapses in the cracked seat.

This guy is clutching a cup of coffee with a white knuckled grip while reading the paper. From the expression on his face, he is definitely in a bad mood.

Clint drums his fingers against the armrest, tapping a haphazard rhythm against the plastic. He sighs loudly, hoping to maybe start some conversation. Nothing happens; Mr. Suit still sits, reading the paper with more vigor (as if that’s even possible). Clint sighs again exaggeratedly and adds a little shoulder shrugging to the act. Silence. Well, isn’t he friendly?

He sighs one last time and okay now Clint is being ridiculously loud and this guy is just mean. He doesn’t even get a ‘what’s got you down’ or something. Aren’t people supposed to do that?

“I’m not going to ask you to talk about what ever miserable feelings you’re currently having, I’ve had a very long day so cut the frankly pathetic act and stop sighing because it’s giving me a headache and I’m not in the best of moods at the moment.” The Suit is still just sitting there, hasn’t even put down the fucking paper, is just peeking over the top with a raised eyebrow. His tone is dull and bored; lazy, even. Clint just huffs and pokes at the seat where spongy yellow stuffing is beginning to show through the fabric. They spend the rest of the hour-long journey in silence.


	2. Next Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the next chapters will all be so much longer than the last one.

Arrows fly through the air at an incredible rate, tearing through fabric and metal and flesh, each one thunking as it hits its target. The wickedly sharp arrowheads glint evilly in the dim light, driving through the air as they are rapidly shot from Hawkeye's bow. Each arrow has about it an unique beauty; in grace, design and purpose. Clint admires this on one of the arrows soaring through the air, before he runs, leaps and somersaults onto a taller ledge. Drawing back the string of his bow, notched with a deadly arrow, to aim at his target is one of the most freeing things in the world. It has a particular rhythm to it; _nock, aim, pull back, release, hit target_.

This particular target is a 'villain' called Narca, his recent pain-in-the-ass; a man with velvety chocolate skin who dresses himself in a skintight stormy grey suit with blue boots, and who arms himself with two softly glowing metallic blue swords strapped across his back, and plenty of killer robots. Clint releases his last arrow, one with an explosive tip, at the last of the small cluster of robots left. He had managed to take the rest of them down with that last shot but Narca himself is the target he has failed to get. And now he's out of arrows. _Great_. Suddenly, the narrow platform he'd been standing on crumbles to dust and ash, revealing Narca holding a smoking gun with a smug expression on his stupid face.

Well, The Amazing Hawkeye is nothing if not a good improviser (and a kick-ass marksman), so he leaps to the floor from his dissolving perch on the tall building, and rolls to the side; he comes up landing directly behind the villain.

"Narca, fancy seeing you here!" Clint chirps with a cocky smile.

"Hawkeye." Narca practically growls. "Are you finished trying to kill me?"

"Depends. Was I successful?" He returns coolly.

Narca gives a mirthless chuckle. "I thought mercenary work was beneath you."

Clint shrugs. "Meh, it pays well."

"Are you done, or is there more laughter to be had at my expense?" Clint scoffs. "Please. There is _always_ laughter to be had at your expense."

"I should have thought it would be the latter."

"Sure. Of course you did. Hey, what happened to your gun?"

"Only one use is permitted of this gun. It disintegrated afterward?"

"Huh, too bad. You talk funny. I should send you a link to urban dictionary. What's your email address? That's kind of a weird thing to say, isn't it? It's like _uh, hey there, not-so-supevillain who's trying to kill me, what's your email address 'cause I'd hate to lose touch--_ "

"Enough sarcasm."

"You don't get to decide that! I'm hurt, Narcie, real--."

"Enough!" Narca claws toward Hawkeye's throat looking downright murderous. Clint yanks the swords out of Narca's sheath and tosses them to one side, snatches an arrow off the floor, thrusts his palm up into the base of the villain's nose and swings out of his reach, balancing on the top of a lamppost effortlessly.

"Come and get me, then." He challenges. He readies his bow and jumps down, landing in a defensive crouch and poised to attack. Narca lunges toward him and Clint slings his bow onto his back, still notched with an arrow, to move into a fighting stance. He sends a fist flying into Narca's face, fighting back now, countering the ruthless punches with kicks and blocks. In one smooth movement, Hawkeye sweeps a dagger from his belt but Narca grabs it and throws it on the floor.

Clint smacks him in the face with his bow, turns, knees him in the balls and somersaults over him to sweep out his legs from under him with a swift kick. Narca, on the floor and spitting blood, growls something unintelligible through his teeth (probably 'I'm going to kill you', or some other type of death threat) and glares at him. Hawkeye smacks him once on the ass with his bow for good measure.

"Tut tut, you really need to work on your reflexes.... And your manners." he says teasingly, kicking his spine. But Narca reaches for the smaller sword strapped to his leg, and he raises himself off the ground and swings at Hawkeye's head with a primal yell. Clint reacts on pure instinct, flipping in the air and raising his bow to defend himself, and Narca slices his beloved bow in two clean pieces. The villain swings at his stomach this time, but he dodges, the blade instead impaling itself in his thigh before disappearing with a shimmer, Narca along with it.

 

Sighing, Clint wipes the blood off his face and gets up to go to his nearest safe house that he has in case of emergencies like this one to bandage his wound. Great. And he still has to go and get the groceries.


	3. Later that Thursday

The sky was just turning the grey of the getting dark when it started pouring. The rain came flooding down in torrents of water, the clouds a stormy grey against the midnight sky and the golden streetlamps. Ducking his head and opening his (purple, of course) umbrella, Clint hurries out of the supermarket to go home.

With Clint relying so much on his vision, he muses to himself, he really should hate the rain. In truth he loves it, though; the tiny drops of water making the colors around them just _THAT_ much sharper, the pitter-pattering sounds like rhythmic drumming in his head, the smell of everything washed away to be fresh and new in the morning. Clint particularly loves the kaleidoscope of umbrellas on a busy day, something most wouldn't notice but he does. It reminds him of the circus, of Carson's, with its busy shapes and colors, all so bright. It is good to be out of that hellhole, but he misses it sometimes.

With his new job, anyway, he is supposed to notice these things. Be observant. Calm. Cool. Ninja-like. Fresh out of Carson's carnival of travelling wonders, he is now an 'Assassin for Hire' (capitals included) and it feels fucking awesome, finally making-- well, not exactly a shit-ton, but enough money to have a warm apartment and decent food every day. It's an adventurous life, and it has its perks, sure, but it gets kind of annoying when the bastard with a sword who you've been trying to take down for the past three weeks tries to take you down and ends up fucking stabbing you in the fucking leg, and you can get a little bit annoyed. But aside from that, life is awesome.

He still has to do mundane things, though. Like he can't walk around in costume (that would be cool, but even cool ninja-slash-assassin-people need dry cleaning. Also, people will stare at a guy who wanders around in bright purple with a bow and a quiver of arrows.) or shoot at random things. And he still has to take the train home from his day job. Thinking about it, that's probably what he will blame in the future for fucking up his life.

+++

 

Oh, fuck. He can't miss this train. If he misses this train he has to stay in this shithole 'till tomorrow. And there is no way in hell he is doing that. So that's why he runs flat out with a huge ( and fucking painful ) gash on his leg from the idiot amateur with a sword, a bag of groceries swinging from his hand just to catch the train as the doors are closing. Too close. He needs to plan this shit better. He blames the dude who cut him. Totally his fault. Clint looks around, breathing harshly, to find there's only one seat left, and it's next to the same boring suit as before. Who is reading the paper. Again. And drinking coffee. Again. Fucking brilliant. He slumps down in the chair next to the suit, who glances at him, looks displeased, amused and bored at the same time, how is that even possible, and goes back to reading the paper. Typical.

There is the awkward period where no-one talks for a while, and-- Okay, Clint can't help it. He's a natural chatterbox, he never shuts up, and right now the silence is deafening. It's just screaming for him to say something to this bland fucking government pencil-pusher but he's so out of it today (with a fucking sword wound-- even though it's actually not the first time, it is / _painful_ /) and he's left with his mind clutching at straws for something to say. But the second he thinks of opening his mouth, the suit says,

"Just so you know, I'm perfectly happy with us spending this journey in silence (ish) again. You don't have to say anything.... Really." Clint makes a slight puzzled face, his mouth forming a small 'o' shape because how did he know he was going to speak?

Without even glancing at him, the suit flashes a-- kind of charming, actually, huh, how did Clint miss that-- grin and says,

"I knew because I'm magic." Clint's jaw hangs, about to say waaaaat, are you a mind reader or something, but the suit puts a finger to his lips and says simply, "Yes, now hush."

The (usually) Amazing Hawkeye opens his mouth, shuts it and opens it again, a confused noise escaping his mouth. His brain has suddenly turned to mush.

"You do know you look like a goldfish when you do that, right?" Mr Suit asks, raising an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his voice. Clint raises his head from his slouch and rests it it on his hand, slumping in his chair. He gets a snort for his efforts. "Going by your pathetic attempts at starting conversation last Thursday with the sighing act, you're normally more talkative than this, huh?" Mr. Suit goes on, cocking his head to one side and studying Clint carefully. "You're kind of green, and very tired. Here," he says, and thrusts a cup of what smells like heaven and is hot and creamy into Clint's hands. _Coffee, dumbass,_ his mind tells him. Clint looks down at the cup in his hands in confusion. "It's called _coffee_. You drink it." the suit says, miming tipping a cup back and drinking from it. He's being patronizing now. Clint scowls at that, making the suit chuckle. Again, stupidly charming. "Sorry I can't help with the leg wound." he says apologetically, nodding to the (freshly bandaged) gash on his leg, almost unnoticeable beneath his jeans.

“What happened? Some kind of knife-- I mean it seems like a sword from the angle that you set the bandage, but that's just silly, right?" He almost looks like he's desperately hoping it wasn't a sword. Okay, not an office guy, then. Is he a doctor? Nurse? Biology TA? Because SERIOUSLY how did he know that, this is getting annoying now. Clint tries a joke in order to distract him.

"And why, may I ask, were you looking down there in the first place, Mr. Suit?" To Clint's eternal delight, Mr. Suit flushes lightly and hesitates, which is probably his equivalent of stuttering. Clint laughs loudly before he says, "Nah, it was just a kitchen knife. Tripped and fell with it in my hand, if you'd believe it-- real fun to tell the nurse at the hospital. I _wish_ my life was so adventurous to go hunting guys with swords every day." Mr. Suit seems to close up at that, spine straightening and face going blank once more, save the small trace of mirth in his eyes. He gives a black chuckle. Trying to open the conversation again, Clint asks "How d'you know, anyway?"

"I knew because I'm amazing like that. Now hush and drink the rest your coffee." he says, bland once more. Clint shuts up and drinks his coffee. His head is hurting too much for this shit.

The coffee helps, a lot, but now that he's feeling chipper and talkative the suit's back to quietly reading the paper, seeming depressed about something; so, of course, the natural reaction is to steal one of the pages from his newspaper and start folding paper planes. Because Clint's just normal like that. Not insane, at all. Especially NOT when Mr. Suit just gives him The Look, just like _really? You insane child, I pity your parents_. Oh, well-- Clint's fairly used to it by now. No harm done. Especially not when he throws his plane at Mr. Suit and it 'accidently' hits him in the face. And then he makes another which happens to sail into Clint's coffee and spill everywhere, even though Mr. Suit ends up smiling very slightly. In his eyes. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. Perhaps it wasn't in Clint's best interests to have done that. Whoops?

When the train stops, they don't even trade goodbyes, only a smile.


	4. Even Later that Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tiny one, sorry

He limps to his tiny apartment late, bag of groceries in hand and on its way to the freezer.

Turning on the lamp, he looks through the flickering light at his tiny one-bedroom apartment: a small weathered armchair sits in the corner opposite the door next to a tiny sofa and a smoothly worn wooden coffee table that rests in front of it. Both face an out of date TV, (dubbed as Walter because Clint's weird like that) whose picture flickers merrily like the lights and the heating and the water. In a different corner of the room there is a tiny kitchenette, containing only the barest essentials. Clint loves trying to make culinary masterpieces with only the barest hints of what he needs-- he mixes, whisks and beats everything by hand.Adjoining that room is a bedroom, containing only a bed, a lamp, a dresser and an end table.

He doesn't sleep in that room normally; he can't sleep in beds, a byproduct of not having one for most of his childhood. He just crashes on the sofa.

The bathroom is crystal clean, from always having to use a dirty one growing up, and there is a huge medicine cabinet fit to treat everything from a paper cut to a broken arm. Or, y'know, a sword in the leg. All the walls are plastered with photos and sketches from the circus, taken on a black and white disposable camera: the brightly colored big top surrounded by trailers; Harriet the acrobat/artist, one of the three Gliders and her sunny yellow trailer dotted with pictures and sketches; the fire dancers and the fire eaters, dressed in flaming regalia and in the middle of one of their ; the fifty-seven clowns cramped in their tiny car; Lisa the contortionist with orange frizzy hair and heaps of freckles standing with Carl, the lion tamer; a young Clint standing with his smiling brother, Barney; Clint and Jack, the bearded lady, teaching him how to cook great food with no money; and his old mentors, Buck and Jacques or Trickshot and The Swordsman. The photos are a reminder of what he has left and will never go back to, though he may miss it.

He stumbles past his few belongings to the bathroom and re-disinfects and bandages his leg with the good stuff, gritting his teeth against the pain. He tries (and fails miserably) to make an omelet, which shows how tired he is, seeing as he can usually make one blindfolded with one hand behind his back. Giving up, he just eats scrambled eggs out of the pan and collapses on the sofa, drifting off to sleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.


	5. Two Weeks Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint meets the Suit again, only this time, he's not as grumpy.

It's another Thursday, but this time, Clint thinks as he ambles along the sidewalk with a lazy smile on his face, he won't miss the train AGAIN, he'll be early. He's swinging the bag with his poor, deceased bow in it (he has another at home, hand crafted by the Trickshot himself), whistling to himself as he thinks of how empty the train will be. 

And he's right. When he gets there are only a few people on the train, and he can choose whatever seat he likes. He pops ear buds in and props his feet on the seat next to him, watching the train fill up around him and every seat but the one next to him get taken. Behind everyone else comes a haggard man he recognizes, wearing sunglasses and a black suit and tie... Clint gasps in his head. It's The Suit!

Clint takes his crossed ankles off the seat and shuffles over in invitation. The suit sits down with a sigh and a slump of his shoulders, eyeing Clint's cup of coffee longingly like it's a doorway to another world filled with candy and rainbows. The line of his suit jacket is crumpled and his shirt is half hanging out, white showing from underneath.

"Rough day, huh?" Clint asks, smirking but feeling genuine sympathy for the man.

"You have no idea." the suit replies, his voice ragged and weary and so unlike the smooth, easy one Clint remembers. Clint feels questions burning in him about this strange man who saved his life and left like it a was no trouble, who seemed to know exactly how Clint thinks, but... He looks at him. There's a cut on his forehead, and he has a split lip. He can see several bruises on his arm, in varying states of healing. Clint's about to ask what's wrong, and then he thinks about his life. For once, he realizes that maybe he doesn't want to know. Clint wordlessly hand The Suit his coffee with a little sigh of thanks from the man.

The suit drains the coffee in one long gulp and loosens his tie slightly, looking much better afterwards; but he remains silent, with no expression until Clint starts getting bored and flicks rolled up balls of paper into the air. The guy's mouth upturns slightly at the corners, and he gives a low (and again, why is he so charming?) chuckle when Clint lands one slap bang in the middle of a snoring old man's forehead. Once he starts getting bigger, though-- crafting his own brand of paper planes-- the guy sits up and leans forward, looking marginally more interested. 

"I was just wondering," he says. “ The last time you sat next to me... What was with your airplane? I mean, it was kind of..." he makes a twisting motion with his hands." ...different." Clint chuckles.

" Yeah. Paper airplanes are a great invention, but they suck sometimes, when the wind is right. Or wrong, I suppose. So I fixed them. I'm pretty good with angles and trajectory and all that jazz, so I just made it better. Like an arrow," he smiles, a genuine grin that he hasn't felt for ages, and it feels good. "You see, an arrow has a triangular head, for cutting through the air like a knife. The body is thin, and aerodynamically straight. The fletching keeps the balance equal, so it doesn't go off course. If you do it right, you could hit the target every time." a knowing smirk then. He starts folding a paper airplane as he speaks. “A paper airplane still needs to be aerodynamic, so it's thin and the tip is triangular. The wings are like the fletching, and keep it balanced." He adds four new folds and a twist to the finished plane, which now resembles something like an arrow. He fixes his gaze at the tiny spot above the door. "See, you fold here and," ...He is flicking the cap of a bottle in the air, as it rises and his vision is level with the top of the door... “Look." ....hurling the plane into the air with a practiced motion as it soars through the space, knocking the bottle cap out of the sky... “Just like an arrow." ...tumbling to the ground with a clatter that seems to crash in the emptiness. He feels himself grinning at the suit, who is staring at him with a slight, concealed awe. He genuinely enjoys this talking to people stuff, explaining things; he hasn't done it in ages.

Mr. Suit-- Clint really should know his name--whistles.

"Wow. Nice aim."

"Thanks. Now, seeing as i just told you my awesome paper plane secret, you have to tell me your name." Mr. Suit just raises an eyebrow.

"That's classified."

"Well, I'll just have to call you Mr. Suit, then, won't I?"

"Okay." Mr. Suit shrugs.

"Fine _Mr. Suit,_ I'm Clint and you don't get my last name till I get yours." Clint throws a second plane at Mr. Suit’s forehead and hits it spot-on. He bats it away from his face and leans forward.

"Y'know, I'm actually very interested in that--like how you compare the plane to an arrow, but I didn't get the bit about......."

So Clint explains it all again, feeling more relaxed than he has in a lifetime.

Mr.-my-real-name-is-classified Suit nods along the whole time, and when Clint is finished, he just leans backwards and closes his eyes with his head resting on the seat. Clint studies him for a while, then gets bored and creates a slingshot out of some pencils and rubber bands, shooting paper balls in the air. When that gets boring, he starts fashioning paper airplanes. He's about to throw one in the air, when--

"You know that some poor person us gonna have to clean that up, right?" Mr. Suit says, WITHOUT LOOKING, and god, this is going to drive him crazy and how DOES he do that? Just as he's about to ask, though, the train slows with a creaking and groaning of the tracks. The suit's head snaps up, eyes wide and alert, but face smooth and calm; Clint barely even notices as he's realizing that it's nowhere near his destination so why has the train stopped?

There's a loud smashing of glass and a guy in silver and blue rolls through the train glass door. Clint wishes he had his non-sliced-in-half bow for this jerk face and looks up to see that it's the guy who stabbed him in the leg, Narca.

Clint doesn't think the other man recognizes him, though; he must want something on the train. That doesn't matter, because Narca starts threatening the previously asleep young girl in the seat front of them, brandishing a huge machete and jabbing it at her neck.

"Where is it!" He growls at her. She's sobbing and screaming out that she doesn't know where 'it' is, but he just sends a fist into her gut and shouts at her to tell him. (Narca's swords must have disappeared or broke, Clint notices).

"Hey, leave her alone!" Clint goes in brave starts throwing punches. Narca seems surprised, and then fights back with all he's worth, machete laying forgotten on the floor. Clint dodges, ducks, blocks and weaves, lashing out wildly at Narca, kicking and punching. He rolls with the hard and heavy blows, using Narca's momentum against him to push him backwards. He lashes out with a vicious right hook and a body blow with his left, a foot sweeping out and a nasty uppercut, knocking the villain backwards against the wall where his head is slammed back. "You!" He gasps dramatically. With the look of a cornered animal lingering in his eyes, Narca pulls a different knife which is glowing softly blue like his old sword, so Clint in Hawkeye mode rolls to the side and comes up in front of him, using surprise to disarm him and kick the knife to one side. Narca is a good fighter, a great fighter, is giving him a run for his money, and Hawkeye is sure that he will have possible cracked ribs, bruises up and down his arms and maybe a broken nose. The offensive attack is quickly turning into a game of 'block the punches' in order to save his face. He is fighting with a bad leg as well, so before long Narca has him pinned to the wall with a dislocated arm and an elbow to his throat. He spits in his face and struggles for all he's worth, to no avail. With a weary sigh of exasperation, the suit stands up and moves behind the wrestling men, pinches the base of a neck and Narca crumples, unconscious. Clint opens his eyes to see the suit muttering a disgusted

"Amateurs", before stepping over the unconscious Narca with a look of distaste and straightening his shirt. Clint stares at him for a second, still on the floor, then blinks twice and stutters,

"W-what the fuck?" The suit flashes a charming smile, saying, "I think the evidence is fairly self-explanatory. Your little distraction was quite handy, though. Thanks. I could have done without, but this way I don't get my dolce crumpled." he says, straightening his perfectly straight tie. And smoothing out his lapels. And slipping on a pair of dark sunglasses. His suit doesn't even have the slightest wrinkle. He raises an eyebrow at Clint's puzzlement. "Well, this was fun. Let's do it again sometime." He smiles but it's only an almost composed flash of teeth, then turns to go and disappears, leaving a very confuses Clint on the bloody floor of a train, with no Narca WHO HAS DISAPPEARED AGAIN.

"LITTLE DISTRACTION!??!"


End file.
